We landed at Albany, and after breakfast found ourselves settled in the Rensselaer and Saratoga cars, and, changing trains at Fort Edward, arrived at Glenn’s Falls in about three hours. Jack, who had often made the trip before, had set me reading _The Leather Stocking Series_, and I positively refused to budge from the town of Glenn’s Falls until we had visited the rapids and descended into the cave which Cooper has immortalized in the first chapters of his most interesting romance, _The Last of the Mohicans_. The falling in of the rock at different periods, and the low stage of the water in the summer season, prevented us from recognizing the old shelter of Hawkeye and his party. But there is the cave, and there are the rapids--both are shrines of American legend; and we felt better pleased with ourselves for our pilgrimage. Of course we had missed the stage which takes passengers from the station to Caldwell at the head of Lake George. We wandered a short time about town, found out that there were a number of Catholics in it, and that its president, Mr. Keenan, was a well-known Irish Catholic. We also visited a beautiful church, the finest in the town, recently completed by Father McDermott, the pastor of the English-speaking Catholic congregation, there being also a French-Canadian parish in the place. As may be easily imagined, we had no mind to walk over to the lake, or to pay ten dollars for a vehicle to carry us as many miles, and Jack was beginning to grumble at my curiosity when we met a farmer’s wagon--with a farmer in it, of course. The latter offered to take us over for fifty cents a head, as he was going in the same direction. Never was there a better piece of good luck. There are several Scotch families settled on French Mountain, at the head of the lake; our driver was one of their patriarchs. He literally poured out funny stories of the “kirk” and “dominie”; and although some of the jokes were very nearly as broad as they were long, Jack and I were forced to hold our sides while the “gudeman” sparkled and foamed, like a certain brown export from his native country. During a momentary lull in the conversation, I took occasion to inquire with respect to a black woolly-coated dog, who followed the 82 wagon, if he were a good hunter. “Yes,” said Jack, with a contemptuous smile at the subject of my inquiry. “He is what is called a beef-hound.” “Hoot, mon,” said his owner, “that dog would tree a grasshopper up a mullen-stalk.”